by Cole McNamara / perilpoet

Present me with a glass, sunshine.
Giddy laughter, happily after.
All good things must decline.

Bundle of bones, smothered by vine.
A day to mourn—there is no laughter;
Present me with a glass of wine.

Leathered skin; drooping midline,
hanging from a lonely rafter.
All good things must decline.

Worshipping the goddess shrine
of the sun that comes thereafter;
Present me with a glass, opine.

Blinded faith: there is no sign
from the first earthly crafter.
Even faith must decline.

Hope is fleeting, by design.
All alone, my keeper’s capture;
Present me with a glass, resigned.
Everything must decline.

If you like this piece, you might also enjoy:

• The Machine Drinks First — a Ruin poem about a world in drought, where we feed the machines our last water while rivers choke, skies pale, and we’re left with trembling, empty hands.
• This Land Was Made For You and Me — a Ruin poem that twists a familiar patriotic refrain into a sharp critique of pied politicians, hollow patriotism, and a country claimed by ego.